


just ice cream

by kerrykins



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Eventual Romance, F/F, Ice Cream, Sexual Tension, fiction&femslashevent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-06-02 20:28:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19448953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kerrykins/pseuds/kerrykins
Summary: There's nothing weird about Andy eating ice cream with her boss in the middle of the night. After all, it's just ice cream- right?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hey shistars im back from the dead (not really but it's been over a month since i've posted any mirandy stuff)! to explain why i haven't been writing uhhh jack shit: mental health, finals week at school, writing block, new hyperfixations, laziness, binge reading, my hbo subscription,, i made a sideblog specifically for fic writing on tumblr so! feel free to talk to me there i guess! harass me into finishing my stories https://kerrykinss.tumblr.com/
> 
> i'd like to thank elle_nic for thinking this was a good idea, and the entire discord group for being hella encouraging and just a really fun bunch of ppl that inspire me to write! i love yall sm??
> 
> anyways, i hope u enjoy! <3 im a hoe for constructive criticism

It’s late, almost midnight. Andy steps over the threshold, sighing in relief when she finds the townhouse has the air conditioning on. New York summers are hell. She glides through the foyer, and as always frets about her heels scratching the gilded surface of the floors. She holds the Book with both hands as carefully as she can. After all, the Book is among Miranda’s most prized possessions. In the long car ride from Runway to Miranda’s house, Andy thinks about all the times Miranda’s fingers have traced along its pages, art springing from a clever Post-It or note in the margins. Of course, Andy doesn’t ever open the Book, because she’s not supposed to— but the temptation is always great.

She yearns to know Miranda a little better, beyond the creamy walls and glass panes of Runway and scorchingly hot coffee. Andy has long ago accepted the fact that her fixation with Miranda extends what should typically be expected of an employee. Emily blindly worships the ground Miranda walks on but it’s not the same as what Andy feels. She doesn’t like Miranda because of her status, money, reputation in the fashion industry— she’s learnt that fashion isn’t as shallow as she’d initially thought but still doesn’t fully understand it. It’s not a matter of what Miranda can give her either, more like what Andy can give her.

She can’t articulate exactly what her feelings are for her boss, but they’re intense and subtle all at once, a level of want that Andy is completely unfamiliar with.

Once the Book is set on the table, she adjusts it an inch so that it’s perfectly centred. She’s about to leave when that  _ voice _ beckons her.

“Andrea.”

Miranda’s voice is always ice cold, the kind that stings for a few extra moments, like an echo in a room. But the way Miranda says her name is like the first note in a song, rich and warm. Andy immediately turns back around and without instruction, follows the sound of Miranda’s voice.

Miranda’s working on her laptop at the kitchen island. Andy remains quiet, hovering around her awkwardly. She doesn’t know why she’d been summoned, but she’s willing to wait a little.

Miranda holds up a finger as if to tell her to wait, her other hand quickly typing away. Those elegant, slender fingers dance along the keyboard, making the drafting of an email look more like the performance of a pianist. “Get some ice cream out. Not the sorbet.”

Andy knows better than to question her boss’ behaviour and does as she’s told, opening the freezer. A gust of cool air hits her, but it’s not cold enough to be too unpleasant. She doesn’t know her way around the kitchen, so she fumbles to find a couple spoons and a bowl. Andy leaves the tub of coffee ice cream out on the counter to let it soften a little as she shuffles around the kitchen.

When she hears the soft click of a laptop being shut, she tilts her head a fraction to glance at Miranda. The older woman has her chin resting in the palm of her hand, elbows on the table. “Well?” She raises an eyebrow.

“It’s too firm for me to serve it yet,” she explains as politely as she can, despite the impatience behind Miranda’s question. “It’ll be ready in a couple minutes, I think.”

Miranda seems somewhat content with her answer, as she doesn’t offer a response other than a curt nod. In an attempt to escape the inevitable awkward silence, Andy busies herself with making some coffee. The same Nespresso machine is used in the office, so Andy has it whirring quickly. Andy grabs one of the nearby ceramic mugs and carefully positions it under the spout of the brewer. Rich espresso pours out, its bittersweet aroma wafting through the kitchen.

Andy keeps her back turned to Miranda but knows the older woman is looking at her. She recognises the peculiar, prickling sensation that runs along her spine, that only Miranda’s intent gaze is capable of producing in her.

She moves back to the kitchen island of swirled marble and mahogany wood, where Miranda is sitting almost expectantly. One leg is tucked underneath her, her other one perched on the bottom rung of the stool. Andy’s charmed by the sight; she looks so relaxed. Before Miranda catches her staring, she pops off the lid of the ice cream box and digs a spoon into it. Soft and malleable, it rolls into a near-perfect sphere, and Andy lets it fall into the bowl. She repeats this process until the bowl is stacked with them, and with a gentle nudge, slides it over to Miranda across from her. The sounds of the coffee machine come to a stop, announcing the espresso’s completion. Andy doesn’t move from her spot though, when Miranda raises the spoon to her lips. Her tongue licks it tentatively, a quick but startling flash of pink that makes the blood in Andy’s ears roar.

She swallows and averts her eyes, staring down at the immaculately tiled floor. “I’ll go get the coffee.” Miranda just gives a muffled hum and it sounds like she’s got the spoon in her mouth. Andy returns with a steaming hot mug and this time Miranda reaches for it. Their fingers meet briefly— Miranda’s touch is cool and feathery soft, and Andy bites her bottom lip to keep herself from gasping or making any other equally embarrassing noises.

“Really, coffee  _ and _ ice cream?” Miranda’s voice is surprisingly light. “You realise how unhealthy that is, especially at this time of the night, Andrea?” Her lips curve into a nearly imperceptible smile, and Andy’s heart beats thunderously in her chest.

“Sorry, Miranda.”

“Mm.” Miranda makes a non-committal hum and takes a sip of the coffee. Looking satisfied, she sets it down and tilts her head at Andy. “Sit down.”

Andy complies immediately, taking a seat on one of the other stools at the island. The legs scrape against the floor as she scoots herself in. Miranda gestures to the ice cream. “I refuse to eat this many calories alone. Have some.”

Andy is at a total loss for what to say to that. “Um. Sure.” She reopens the tub of ice cream and serves herself an ample helping. Andy isn’t particularly fond of coffee, but she can’t decline an invitation to hang out with Miranda. She raises the spoon to her mouth and slowly takes a bite. Miranda’s eyes are glued to her, which is equal parts thrilling and uncomfortable. Her face is hard and contemplative, much like that of a marble statue.

Andy does her best to finish the ice cream quickly, in hopes that will get Miranda to stop looking at her like that.

“Did you enjoy it?” 

Andy squirms a little at the sound of Miranda’s voice, smooth and low and doing funny things to her brain. “Yeah.”

Miranda licks her lips then, and Andy’s stomach flips. The silver waves of her hair curl over an eye and behind her ears.

“You have some ice cream on your face, Andrea,” she whispers. Andy briefly presses her fingers to her lips, and glances at them. There’s no ice cream, she’s about to say, but something in Miranda’s expression makes her shut up.

“Oh,” Andy says, like a complete idiot. “Do you, uh, have any napkins or - “

“Allow me.” Miranda reaches out and drags her thumb along Andy’s bottom lip. Andy gasps softly, shaking a little. Oh my god, she thinks. Oh my god. Miranda Priestly is touching her. Her face. The older woman’s hands are so soft, softer than Andy could have ever imagined. Would it really be so crazy if she were to kiss Miranda’s hand now? Her head is swimming with thoughts of ice cream and pale skin, overwhelmed by sensation— even though it’s just a hand. Miranda’s hand.

When Miranda lets go of Andy’s face, Andy is left both bereft and relieved. Her shoulders remain tensed but she lets out a shaky breath.

Miranda’s eyes search hers. Andy has always loved her eyes; grey, pensive, beautiful. Then, “That’s all.”

No way, Andy thinks. She’s got to be kidding. But Miranda never kids. In a daze, Andy rises from the stool, her legs feeling like lead as she staggers out the door, away from Miranda and her gentle touch.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a big thank you to local legend elle_nic for lending her brain cell and basically brainstorming half the story for me. i honestly don't know a better person
> 
> also sorry for being gone so long!

Emily tells her the next day that Miranda is insistent on Andy delivering the Book again. Andy nods in acknowledgment, trying not to appear too flustered. She wonders if Miranda will ask her to stay for ice cream again. Her face grows hot at the thought. She’s probably never going to be able to think of ice cream the same way again, not without remembering how Miranda’s hand felt against her mouth.

Emily sniffs. “For God’s sake, don’t you see it? She favours you.” Her lip curls as she says that last part, as if the words taste rancid in her mouth.

“I don’t know about that,” says Andy hesitantly. Emily rolls her eyes as if that’s the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard but just sits down at her desk, resuming her work.

Andy takes a deep breath and tries to do the same.

It takes longer than it usually does for the Book to be assembled and ready to deliver. Andy passes the time by shifting restlessly in her seat and trying very hard not to think of anything at all, especially Miranda. As always, she fails in that department.

She used to think that Miranda was all hard edges and words— but now notices the soft parts of her too; the slide in her walk, the curve of her hips. There’s the sharpness of her mouth and the fullness in her cheeks. Miranda has different facets, the singularly most interesting person Andy has ever known.

Andy is pulled out of her reverie by Matthew from the art department placing the Book in front of her. “Thanks,” she says gratefully. He nods but doesn’t walk away, hovering around Andy’s desk.

“Uh, what’s up?” Andy asks, a little impatient to get a move onto Miranda’s townhouse. She’s already logged off of the computer and stowed her belongings into her bag.

Matthew seems intent on taking his time, twiddling his thumbs anxiously. At the sight of that, Andy decides to forgive him. He’s really a sweet guy, if not a little slow.

“I just wanted to know if you were free tonight. Maybe we could get a drink?” He gives her a shy, hopeful smile, but Andy can’t see anything how she can do anything other than decline his offer.

“Sorry, Matthew,” she says with a wince, really meaning it. “After the Book gets delivered I usually go straight home. Maybe some other time.” Trying not to feel guilty about the crestfallen look that crosses his face, she murmurs her goodbyes before heading out the door.

Somewhere between Runway and Miranda’s townhouse, Andy realises Matthew had probably been asking her out. She curses herself for her stupidity but even if she had been aware of it at the time, her reaction wouldn’t have been much different. She’s not really interested in pursuing something with him, or anyone else for that matter— well, except Miranda, despite how impossible that is.

Like the night before, Andy finds Miranda sitting in the kitchen, poised and perfect in crisp grey slacks and a bored expression. She rolls a glass of white wine in her hand, waves of pale liquid sloshing against its side. When Andy creeps closer, Miranda stirs back to alertness, eyes bright. “Sit.”

Andy does and slides the Book over to Miranda, hoping to avoid the frequent, accidental brushing of fingers. Trying not to stare at Miranda, Andy instead fixates on the dinner plate sitting in front of them, barely touched. Miranda hates salmon but her doctor said she needs to incorporate more fish into her diet. Hence, the unfinished salmon and nectarine arugula salad.

“Don’t bother putting that away,” Miranda says. “The fish is far too overdone to be saved.” Andy thinks it looks just fine but then again, it’s not like her opinion matters. So instead she just nods and tries not to squirm in her seat.

They stew in silence until Miranda slides off the stool. She gives Andy a meaningful look over her shoulder and says, “Follow me,” with the Book in hand.

Andy’s chest tightens in anticipation and a little fear. Nevertheless, she follows Miranda. They go up the staircase and across the hall until they’re in Miranda’s second study. Andy can’t help but marvel at the colossal shelves that reach the roof, brimming with various books and miniature glass-blown figures of dolphins and abstract shapes. When the lights are flipped on, they glow gold and white around their edges.

Miranda curls up on the chaise, tucking her legs beneath her. “We need to go over the schedule for tomorrow.” Without a moment of hesitation, she launches into a list of instructions that Andy writes down or fufills immediately. 

Silence follows, a kind that both are consciously perpetuating. For Andy, a conversation would be too much for her to handle, with Miranda sprawled on the couch like that with her— with a few more buttons on her blouse popped then there should be, revealing the slight pale curve of her breast. She doesn’t know what Miranda’s reasons are and doesn’t dare ask. 

Miranda is restless, constantly searching for things to keep herself preoccupied. She flips through the Book, brushes nonexistent dust from a shelf, taps her finger to an unknown beat. Andy tracks these movements out of the corner of her eye, unable to look at the boss directly. 

“You didn’t have dinner?”

At the sound of Miranda’s voice, Andy finally wills herself to meet the older women’s eyes. “No.” She seldom has dinner these days since Miranda forbids her employees from eating at their desks.

Andy expects Miranda to be dismissive or irritated but she is neither, rising to her feet and sighing. “We have to go back downstairs, then.”

“Why?” The question leaves Andy’s lips before she has the sense to stop herself.

“You didn’t eat,” Miranda says flatly. “Now come along.” Andy wonders what the point of even coming up here was in the first place, if they’re just going to head back downstairs. Maybe it’s just Miranda’s way of closing the deafening silence between them, via constant movement and conversation. Maybe Miranda had brought Andy up here for a reason but changed her mind last minute. Andy could spend the rest of her life wondering why Miranda did the things she did and come up dry with explanations.

Miranda doesn’t cook something herself, obviously. Her gargantuan fridge is mostly empty, spare for a couple pre-made meals that Andy helps herself to. Andy is once again subject to Miranda’s scrutiny as she eats, which doesn’t make for the most comfortable environment to have a meal in. She wonders why Miranda doesn’t ever take her eyes off her and why she enables Andy’s unrequited pining. Perhaps this infatuation isn’t one-sided after all.

She’s tempted to ask Miranda point-blank but doubts that would go over well. So instead, Andy takes small forkfuls of her pasta and pretends she doesn't see Miranda watching her.


End file.
